The Butterfly Effect
by abovetheserpentine
Summary: Every action has a consequence. For Hermione Granger, Cedric Diggory bears consequences no one could have thought. SEQUEL. CDHG.


**Title:** _The Butterfly Effect_  
**Summary:** Every action has a consequence. For Hermione Granger, Cedric Diggory bears consequences no one could have thought. SEQUEL. CDHG.

I figured I'd give you guys a taste of the sequel with the first chapter… it might be a while before I update, however, as school has a lot of commitments.

**The Decemberists – Won't Want For Love (Margaret In The Taiga)**  
_Gentle leaves, gentle leaves, please array a path for me –  
__The wood's all growing thick and fast around.  
__Columbine, columbine, please alert this love of mine –  
__Let him know his Margaret comes along._

* * *

**PREFACE**

It had started as something simple, something so different she couldn't deny it. But then it grew, which was fine in any normal circumstance. But this wasn't normal – far from it, in fact. She was meddling with everything there was to meddle with and no one had stopped her. Granted, they'd maybe tried, but she had been too deep in. And she still was.

Wasn't this all for the best? She thought it was. It was why she didn't resist - why she had _encouraged_ it, even – in the first place. Everything was meant to be simple. It was meant to be nice and simple and normal and everything was meant to be _right_.

But oh how things change.

They were here, all of them. And Merlin, she had made them come, practically begged them. Just to get a taste, just to use it in defence. Her blood boiled at the thought of herself, and she almost wanted to empty her stomach right there on the dark, cold stone floor. As Hermione looked around her, she realised it was entirely plausible to do so and not be noticed. No one, not even now, took any notice of her. It had always been like this. It was probably why she was who she was now.

Had Hermione been more aware of where she was and the people around her, she would have seen the light coming toward her. She would have been able to defend herself readily. The spell flying in her direction would have been nothing against a strong _protego_ from her sturdy wand.

There was the slight problem, however, that she was not aware of her surroundings, or her peers. Someone was, though. Someone who she had taken for granted ever since she'd known him – someone who was just about to do the same for her as she'd done for him.

This time she saw it, she saw it as it encased his body in bright light. It was over as quickly as it had flown toward them, and the three involved stood still. The battle raged on around them and still no one noticed her. Or him. She shouldn't have been surprised, but she couldn't help it. The expression came across her face before she could realise, and she stared at his back, which was facing her, in confusion. He stumbled, taking a couple of steps back – and she moved aside, just on reflex. When his shoed feet hit the step behind him, he lost his balance. And almost, as if in slow motion but Hermione knew that was definitely not the case, he was falling. So slowly, and so gracefully. Her eyes flickered to what was behind him, and she tried to move her body to help him, save him, make him _hers_. Her pale hand was thrust out, and suddenly everything sped up as if on fast forward. His fingers enclosed hers, and she felt herself relax in relief. But then he was slipping, the calloused fingers sliding against her palm. He moved his other arm behind him to weaken the impact of his fall, but he felt no surface. They both looked to the hand, and saw that it was past the cloth, and had gone through the floor as if he were a ghost. He looked back at her as his hand fell away completely and she lost her grip. Horrified, she moved forward to grab him; his clothes slipped through her fingers like he was but an illusion.

And as Hermione stared at his shocked face, she knew.

There was no way she could save him this time.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE – Simplicity**

A bushy head of hair was shaking, its owner's hand scribbling furiously against yellowed parchment with a feather quill. One would normally question the use of such an old-fashioned writing apparatus by someone so seemingly normal. But this girl was anything but normal. In fact, she was Hermione Granger, resident bookworm of the house Gryffindor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; definitely not normal.

As she scrawled and scrawled and scrawled, she thought. She thought about the past year and most importantly, she thought about the next. There was a feeling that had overcome her over the summer – that the worst was yet to come. And that was not a good feeling to have if you were Hermione.

The feeling settled around her when she was doing chores, doing her homework, reading, in bed, in the shower – anywhere and everywhere, it followed her. Like a shadow, and definitely as dark as one in the figurative sense. She wanted to know why, of all people, this ominous feeling took over _her_. Wasn't it enough that last year had been both a blessing and a curse? Both heaven and hell? And yet again, this year would be, too?

"Hermione! Dinner's on the table!"

The shrill yell of her mother broke her thoughts, and she threw down her quill in frustration, staring at the page before her. Her passion for school work was gone and she had tried aimlessly all summer to get it back. It was most unlike her, and she was afraid it meant something more than her growing sick of being a goody two-shoes. After the past year, everything was different, and Hermione couldn't help the feeling that it was for the worse, despite the circumstances she now found herself in.

Cedric Diggory was not something simple at all.

She pushed back her chair, the metal scraping harshly against the wooden floor. She felt and heard the scrunching of paper underneath her weight and chose to ignore it – thinking about her increasing messiness was not taking on a positive outlook for the summer, something which she had vowed she would do. Legs groaning from lack of use, Hermione rose tiredly and made her way down the stairs so that she could quell her hunger pains.

Eating slowly, as she had taken to doing during her times of musing, Hermione ignored her parents' idle chatter and thought about the note still burning a hole in her favourite jacket's pocket. She'd written to him, just like he'd asked. In fact, she'd more than written to him – she'd practically sent him a ten foot essay, detailing everything she had done and was doing after the first two weeks of summer holidays. Was she pestering him? She'd only sent the one letter, and still she had received no reply. Was she too clingy? Maybe he was having second thoughts?

No, that couldn't be it. After all, he'd asked to stay with her for the entire summer.

Her face crumpled at the thought of him, standing there, almost pleading with her to let him tag along. He seemed so desperate, and every time she looked back on it, it made her wonder why. But that wasn't her business to pry. He would tell her if he wanted to. Regardless, she couldn't help but hope he needed her in some way. And in a way, she regretted not giving him the chance to prove as much to her. The look on his face, the hurt in his eyes… she hadn't known she could be so heartless until that moment. She shouldn't have denied him – it was just too much. They were already balancing on the tip of a knife, and she'd pushed him over the edge. Hermione had left him on his own, knowing that right now, she was the only person he could _really_ go to; the only person who would understand everything he was going through without having to have gone through it themselves.

Pushing her plate away from herself, she got up out of her chair and tucked it and her cutlery into the dishwasher carefully, taking her time by distracting herself with cleaning the plate completely before placing it in the dishwasher. Ignoring the odd looks from her parents, Hermione dragged her feet through the doorway into the hall, and then the same up the stairs and down _that_ hallway into her room. She huffed as she settled heavily on her bed, not knowing what to do with herself.

Although her passion for school work had diminished, it hadn't stopped her from ordering her fifth year school texts early and avidly reading through each and every chapter of each and every book. The usual accomplished feeling she had after doing such a thing was not present, and she was slightly put-out about the matter. But what could she do? Obviously homework did not fill that void anymore – the void she felt when Harry and Ron never quite caught on to what she was talking about; or the void she felt when even her parents no longer asked her what was wrong.

Or, more specifically, the void she felt when she couldn't talk to him, see him, even _touch_ him.

It was just all one big mess and she planned to rectify it immediately. That, of course, was easier said than done.

What could she do, though? Was there _honestly_ anything? Huffing again, Hermione laid down on her bed, looking to her ceiling – a pristine off-white that she hated. She'd written to him, and that was surely as far as she could go. Anything else would be inappropriate, to say the least, and most of all probably breaking either a few laws or a few wards. She was bound to be found out, and worst of all, her parents would ground her for weeks – a grounding was something she had promised she would never receive. Then there was the worrying parents part, and the police; then _they_ would ask questions of her, and she'd have to lie because she was a witch and it was just too complicated to think about, and required _way_ too much effort.

So to explain why she was currently stuffing a duffel bag full with a few books and a pile of clothes and some toiletries sitting neatly on top, was a very hard thing to do. Slightly out of breath, she pulled her jacket on roughly, grabbed her wand and almost yanked the piece of paper out of her jacket pocket. She opened it, and only just realised how creased it was from the many times she'd read it. Trying to flatten it out, she soon gave up and read the memorized words once more.

_17 Ottery Rd, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, U.K._

Hermione stared at it for a moment.

_Now where the hell is that?_

Groaning, she flopped down onto her bed, once more frustrated with herself. Oh, how she wished she could apparate. Things would be much simpler. That's all she wanted nowadays, all she asked for – simplicity. Even something as simple as simplicity seemed hard to come by. Just thinking over that made her head ache in confusion. Pushing the thought from her mind, she realised she could go nowhere at this time anyway. After all, her parents were surely still downstairs, watching television or reading the Saturday paper over a glass of brandy or something of the sort. Hermione never took notice anymore.

So she was stuck. Not indefinitely – oh no, never indefinitely – but definitely for a long period of time. Maybe a couple of hours. There was nothing for her to do right now, and she felt a little lost. Her great plan was no longer so great, and she felt her heart sink at the thought. She could have been useful, but in true Gryffindor style she'd gone into the plan without any thought as to the execution. What an idiot she was. And people said she was smart!

Staring up at the off-white ceiling of her room once more, Hermione wondered what would happen after the immediate future passed. She tried not to think about it; the rejection, maybe… the uncomfortable silence… the nervousness. There were so many things that could go wrong that she almost didn't want to think about it. But it was silly, because it was exactly all she could think about. Turning on her side, the fifth year stared down her wooden door.

_I hate this place._

The thought took her off guard, and she blanched at the realisation. Yes. She did. Frowning to herself, and she tried to understand why. It had been a home – somewhere to go to when everything else was lost or in chaos. It had been her sanctuary, the only place where she could be herself and where no one would see her being herself. She felt a little guilty at despising it so, but again frowned at the feeling. What did she have to feel guilty for? Was it a crime to move on to bigger and better things? What even _were_ those things?

Hermione looked around herself – she looked at the fraying blankets beneath her, the dusty lampshade sitting atop the lamp on her bedside table; she looked at the scattered parchment on her desk, and at Crookshanks's bed, unoccupied as per usual and definitely in need of a wash; her closet, old and almost broken and containing only her school robes and the few dresses she owned; she ran her eyes over the polished wooden floor, and the bin that was overflowing in the corner. All of these things, every single one… they reminded her of something she didn't have, or really, something she was missing. It reminded her that she had a real life outside of school and being a death seer and falling in love with Cedric Diggory. And the harsh realisation was hardly pretty.

So this place was no longer a home, no longer a sanctuary; all those things were by _his _side. And yet, when she'd been there she hadn't even realised it. Hermione could almost scoff at the ludicrous nature of it all. What was the saying – you don't know what you've got until it's gone? Yeah, well, even before he was gone she knew what she had, what she felt. Now she just felt sorry for herself. Self-pity was such a tiresome feeling, and she yawned despite her inner-self protesting. Closing her eyes slowly, Hermione reflected on what had changed, and what was just the same.

It was rather unsettling that she got the feeling that _nothing_ had changed. She drifted off to sleep soon after the thought.

_She couldn't help but laugh as she was lifted off the ground, her dress flipping in the wind and her cries of joy floating through the air into the distance. Her sandals were just about to slip off, she could feel them. Shrieking in protest, but laughing all the same, she hit the back of the figure holding her._

"_Cedric! Stop, stop, please!" The grin on her face would have told him otherwise had he seen it, but he halted suddenly. His hands abruptly loosened their hold, and she slipped through his arms like liquid and landed on the ground with a _thud_. She looked up at him, and he was still – unmoving. It was almost like he was a zombie, a robot; a puppet for her to control. She slowly stood, rubbing her sore wrist weakly._

"_Ced?" she murmured, not quite mumbling. His eyes settled on her own, intense and cold._

"_You can't control me."_

_He kissed her then, bruising her lips. His hands came up to grasp her face, holding it still, encasing her skull and making her feel claustrophobic. She was caged._

"_I'm dying."_

_She looked to him, and saw his bright red eyes and satisfied smirk. The blondish-brown hair was ruffling in the wind, and his stubble definitely needed to be shaved – but this was not what drew her attention._

_He was severely burnt. All along his neck, below his right ear, Hermione could see the scarring – the puckered skin and the permanent red pigment._

"_Always." he said, and attacked her with his mouth once more._

_She pushed at his chest, desperate to get away from his suffocating kisses; the smothering feeling she was receiving through them was slowly ebbing through her, seeping into her veins. They boiled, and she felt hot. She smelt smoke, but could not do anything. Cedric had her in his arms, pliable and willing, and she could do nothing._

_Her shirt was gone._

_His hands moved up her back, trailing agonizingly slowly, and she moaned in encouragement. As his mouth went for her breasts, she looked down to watch._

_Her skin was red. It was puckering. He was giving her whatever he had. She pushed him away in shock, and she felt the sting of betrayal run through her._

"_How could you?" she exclaimed, stepping back from him as tears fell off her cheeks onto the long grass below._

_Cedric closed the distance between then, and snatched a flailing hand. She tried to resist, but he was too strong for her and pulled her roughly to him. Grabbing her arse aggressively, his mouth grazed her left ear and she melted in his arms._

"_You can't fight it." As he spoke, she felt hotter and hotter and hotter, until the hot movements of his mouth on her neck felt ice cold._

"_You have no control."_

_She felt him push her back violently, and her hold on him slipped down his arms until she was holding on by his hands. He stood there, unchanged and unaffected. The smirk on his face grew, and she looked below her to see that she was hanging, the cliff face in front of her and rough seas below. Tears still streaming, she looked up pleadingly at her love._

"_Sometimes, _Hermione,_" She couldn't help but flinch at the bitterness in his tone, and raised her eyes to his own, the red of his gleaming in the sunlight, "It's best to just let things _happen_."_

_On the last word, he released his grip on her. The wind blew her hair around her face, and she was screaming, screaming, roaring in grief and loss and waiting for darkness and death to consume her like it should have a long while ago._

"_YOU ARE NOT GOD!"_

Hermione let out a squeal as her body hit the hard, cold wooden floor. Sitting up quickly, she rubbed her bruised side and cringed at the funny feeling of her elbow. It twinged a bit, but nothing serious it seemed. She sighed in exhaustion as she hauled herself from the ground. Looking at her muggle clock, she saw it was almost three in the morning. She must've been a sleep for more than four hours. She frowned, wondering why her parents hadn't checked up on her.

There was no time to worry about that, however, as she quickly realised it was the perfect opportunity to get her things together and go. Maybe had she focused a little less on the task at hand, she would have noticed the unopened letter newly residing on her desk. But alas, such a thing did not happen.

Grabbing the previously abandoned duffel bag that lay untouched at the base of her bed, she quickly but quietly made her way downstairs, making sure to avoid the creak stair and trying not to bring notice to herself. Crookshanks was really quite loud when he got offended – and her leaving without telling him would surely offend the ginger cat.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione steadied herself for what she was about to do. Trying not to think about all the consequences raging through her head, she quickly turned the squeaky lock and swiftly moved through the doorway into the front yard. Closing the door as quietly as she could, Hermione walked calmly down her front path, trying to act like sneaking out at three o'clock in the morning was exactly what she should be doing. She ignored the feeling that several neighbours were watching her rebellious act, and strode along the footpath in a determined manner, aiming to walk down the street a long ways so as to avoid suspicion when she would later have to explain herself, no doubt.

Looking around her, she didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. That is to say, she didn't notice anything that wouldn't normally be out on a Saturday night – or really, early Sunday morning.

She thrust out her arm, wand in hand.

With a rather large bang that resembled something of a broken down tractor, a high, multi-leveled purple vehicle appeared, as ready as it would ever seem to take her wherever she needed to go.

"Stan Shunpike, welcome to the-"

"Seventeen Ottery Street, Ottery Saint Catchpole, Devon, please."

Stan Shunpike looked at her like she'd grown three heads. To be honest, she thought she ought to be rather flattered – after all, the potion that resulted in such a thing was incredibly complicated to make.

Hermione sighed, pulling out her wallet filled with wizarding currency. She'd known it would probably come to this.

"How much extra do I need to give you so that you make _my_ stop priority?"

Stan flushed, obviously embarrassed by his blatant staring and readable face.

He mumbled something unintelligible, and she just rolled her eyes and shoved x-amount of coins into his waiting hands. He was still counting them by the time she had herself seated, and the bus was rearing to go. She realised with contempt that there were no other passengers, and wished she hadn't bothered with the bribe at all.

To say that she enjoyed the ride would be an outright lie. She wanted someone, anyone, to remind her to never ride that damned bus again. It was a catastrophe waiting to happen, and she didn't want to be on it, or simply even there, when it did.

"Ottery Saint Catchpole, young lady. And I'd remind you that it ain't safe 'round here. Watch yourself."

She thanked Stan as she departed, slightly paler than when she got on. She accepted his advice and remained wary – but she was Hermione Granger, Death Seer and had bloody well faced Voldemort the school year before. She at least gave herself _some_ credit for that.

_Eleven… thirteen… fifteen… ah hah! Seventeen._

She stopped in front of the house, taking it in so that she could remember this moment for a long time to come. She hadn't really thought through this part all that well. She supposed she'd been expecting some sort of marching band reunion type event, but that was just silly. Things like that didn't happen in real life, only in those deplorable muggle movies her mother used to make her watch as a child. But still, she felt rather out of place. And it didn't even look like anyone was home.

_Well of course no one's home, you idiot. It's three o'clock in the bloody morning!_

Oh. Well. Well, of course.

Gulping dramatically, Hermione opened the gate a silently as she could – which wasn't very silently – and padded softly to the front door. Frowning, she wondered what to do next. It was so late, or early rather, that no one would answer. Should she just open the door? Test her luck?

Hermione's small, elegant, pale hand grasped the door knob and turned slowly. There was no sound as she opened the door further and treaded leisurely into the old, Victorian style home. And there was no doubt that it was one – it looked extremely well-lived in. Glasses half full, glasses half empty, a stack of newspapers by the fire, a wand lying on the coffee table of the living room. Down the hall she could see the entrance to the kitchen and went to go towards it. She paced slowly, looking at the wallpapered walls and polished oak floor beneath her. She was thinking of the homeliness of this place; the way it felt warm and fuzzy and just like home _should_ feel-

Hermione's scream was muffled by a large, calloused hand as her body slammed into the wall to her left. Trying to fight off her attacker, she kicked and scratched and tried to reach for her wand in her jeans' front pocket, but generally failed. He was too strong, too big, and too angry to let her do anything but continue to be squashed against the wall. She tried to bite his hand, but in response he simply moved it down the hold her to the wall by the throat. She felt the hard pressure of his forearm on her throat and stopped fighting. It was useless.

A lighted wand was in his right hand, and she looked to it before looking to his face.

Her own broke into a smile.

"Ced," she whispered, and to her own ears it almost seemed to be a whimper. She raised her arms, hoping to embrace him.

"What's your name?" he demanded fiercely, staring at her intensely, cold… just like in her dream…

"Hermione Granger." she rasped, frowning and scared.

"When is your birthday?" he demanded once more, voice husky with anger. His eyes looked about ready to wish her to turn inside out.

"September nineteenth, nineteen-seventy-nine." Her voice almost faltered, but she managed to cover it up quite nicely. This man, whoever he was because he certainly wasn't acting like Cedric, was intimidating her. And she didn't know what else to do but to answer his questions.

"What are you?" he asked sternly, pushing his wand tip into the side of her neck. Hermione could feel her pulse thumping against it.

"Ced, what are you tal-"

"_What are you?_"

Hermione looked into his eyes, and saw the impatient hope beneath them. Tears trickled down her red, clammy cheeks. His eyes did not soften, but she knew, somehow, that this was the man she loved. Why was he doing this to her?

"I'm-… I-I'm a Death Seer." She lowered her eyes, looking down but not so much that his forearm might suffocate her.

The arm was removed, as well as the wand, and she went to look up at Cedric, but was caught by surprise.

His mouth crushed hers with the pressure he exuded in the kiss. It took her a second or two to gather her bearings before she was responding eagerly, moving with him and deepening the kiss she had waited weeks for, although it seemed more like months.

His hands came up to her face, but unlike in her dream, it did not make her feel claustrophobic, but simply closer to him, closer to Cedric in every way. She molded her body against his, wrapping her arms around his neck and standing on her toes to get comfortable with his height. His head was bowed, and he was biting and sucking and doing everything he could to memorise the way she kissed and the way she loved.

He broke away for a moment, and both of them were panting heavily.

"Where have you been?" he whispered brokenly, and began to devour her again. His left hand moved to her hip, pulling her closer to him – if that were possible – and moving up the middle of her back to her black bra strap, settling there comfortably. By this time, Hermione's breaths were coming in ragged gasps, and her hands were in his hair, twisting and tugging until her mouth connected with his once more.

She never had the chance to answer him as he lifted her so that her legs would have to wrap around his waist if she wanted to steady herself. He was moving, she noted, although she did not take notice of where to. She was a little preoccupied, and was in awe at how he could possibly navigate at a time like this. The thought soon flew from her head as he lowered them onto a soft, cushioned surface. She vaguely noted it was probably a bed but realised she didn't particularly care _where_ they did it, just that they did.

_Whoa, wait… what am I- oh Merlin that feels good – what am I _doing?_ Cedric!_

But her thoughts could not communicate to her mouth and out into the air. She remained gasping in desire, running her hands through Cedric's hair as his hands made her t-shirt bunch up just below her bra. His hands skimmed underneath _there_, and she gripped his hair tighter. His mouth left a hot trail down her neck, and was continuing down-

The window was open, and a strong wind passed suddenly, running against her skin, forming goosebumps and making her brain kick into action.

"Cedric," she moaned. Okay, so that wasn't helping. Maybe another sentence might suffice? "Stop," but it seemed less like a plea and more like a garbled gurgle.

"Cedric, stop." she said more firmly, and his ministrations paused, his eyes looking up at her from around her belly button. The lust present seemed to abruptly diminish, and his hands were gone from her, and her skin was left tingling. His warmth and weight disappeared, and she watched as he stood for a moment before turning to a chest of drawers. She looked around, and assumed this was Cedric's room. She was surprised, as it was quite bare and didn't even seem like someone regularly slept here. It was a ghost of a room, Hermione realised, as she saw the slight poster marks on his walls. He must have taken them down.

Why?

She saw him pull out boxers and a grey loose t-shirt, before turning to what looked to be an en suite. He locked the door behind him.

Hermione sighed in relief. She hadn't realised what time apart from Cedric had meant for her _body_ specifically. That reaction was totally unexpected, and she assured herself it would not happen again. In fact, she _couldn't_ let it happen again – such a reaction would surely end in disastrous consequences. Not that… _that_… wouldn't be good with… _him_ – oh, she was sure it would be – but it was more a question of timing than anything else. She was sure he understood, even if he was a hormone-raged, teenaged male with needs

Oh, why was she even having this conversation with herself?

Elbows collapsing beneath her, Hermione laid down on the comfortable single bed. At least that reassured her he didn't regularly get fifth years into his bed just to have sex with them.

_Oh, gross – Hermione, that's sick._

Sighing, she turned on her side, quickly pulling down her shirt so as to avoid further embarrassment later. She fingered the blue blanket beneath her, not bothering to cover herself with it as it was a warm summer night. But its simplicity startled her, and she realised she'd never seen a male's bed _not_ decked with Quidditch-styled bed covers.

Burying her bushy-haired head into the pillow, Hermione inhaled sharply. Smelling him on his own pillow, even if it might have seemed creepy later, gave her the comfort she'd been seeking every night since she had last slept in his bed, literally of course. And so it was with great ease that she slowly drifted off into a contented sleep, but not before she felt a large, warm body lay down beside her, its heavy arm settling on her waist.

_She was running._

That bitch,_ she thought, _that fucking bitch. I'll get her.

"_Murderer!" she screamed across the foyer, and was granted with a maddening cackle in return._

_Pushing her legs harder, ignoring the muscles that ached in protest, Hermione turned the corner into the grand foyer, with the hideous golden statues that she despised. They glistened in the firelight, and the water of the fountain seemed to shimmer, as if under a spell._

"_Do you really want to kill me, Granger?" she heard from behind her, and twirled around quickly, hair whipping her own face and wand out, steady._

"_What do you think, Lestrange?" Hermione whispered into the dimly-lighted room. Tears ran fast down her face, dripping onto her clothes. But she did not care. She could not. Her heart ached. "You can't get away with this!"_

_A sound was heard from behind her once more, and she turned around, but was too slow for the dark witch. Her wand was knocked from her hand, and she was sent flying into the ground. The woman, if you could call her that, was above her, grinning maniacally. It was almost inhumane, and in the one second that she realised she was done for, Hermione felt sorry for her. But that moment quickly passed and she was glaring at the crazy witch with as much hatred as she could muster._

"_It's so nice to kill off lovers together, you know?" Bellatrix's eyes widened with glee, and there was a strange glint to her eye._

"_You bitch." Hermione seethed, clenching her jaw in defiance. The Death Eater's eyes flashed._

"_That's not very nice." she said mockingly, raising her wand._

_Hermione turned her head to the left, spotting her own a few metres away. Her left hand twitched, and it flew silently into her waiting palm. She felt the cool feel of her magic run through her and smiled. She turned back to Bellatrix._

"_Oh, I know… _CRUCIO!_"_

_The bitch's satisfying screams filled the room._

She jolted awake, immediately feeling the sweat coating her skin and glistening in the moonlight from Cedric's window. Feeling around groggily, she noted that she was still in Cedric's embrace. Gently raising the arm that was around her, Hermione placed it on the bed and got up, stretching her legs. Her hands were still shaking, and Hermione did not know what to think of this latest development. What did it mean? And did it even mean anything?

Shuddering, and pushing thoughts of her ability to the back of her mind, Hermione only just noticed the owl sitting on Cedric's desk. It was very unusual, as she'd never seen the owl before, and she knew what Cedric's looked like. In fact, she'd have to ask him where Zeus was. She hadn't seen the bird, and Cedric loved it like it was his own child. Surely, he can't have sold his pet? No, surely not.

The owl hooted inquisitively. Hermione jumped, startled. Smiling in relief at realising it was only the owl, she cautiously approached it. It had a letter tied to its leg, and Hermione patted the owl as she untied the string. The animal seemed friendly enough, so she figured it was of no harm to her.

Turning over the envelope, she was confused to read that it was addressed to her.

No one knew she was here.

Walking back over to the bed and sitting down, Hermione ripped open the letter slowly and carefully so as to not wake the sleeping Hufflepuff beside her. The parchment was blank. She turned it over.

_The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

As Hermione felt the familiar pull at her navel, her eyes widened and she did the only thing she could think of.

She grabbed Cedric's hand.

When they both landed heavily onto a dusty, old wooden floor, Hermione spluttered and coughed amongst the dusty air. Cedric was above her, holding his own body weight so as to not crush her. He was shaking his hair of dust. His hips were positioned between her two legs, and she blushed at the intimate position. Of course. Of course they landed this way.

"Hermione… what-?"

She looked up, and saw many faces she knew and some she didn't. And they all seemed slightly disturbed that Cedric was with her.

"_Diggory?_"

* * *

Well I hope you guys liked the start of TBA! I am very much looking forward to this story, I have a lot in mind for it.

Review, please. Yay.

PheeCullen


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